


Purple Haze

by spaceOdementia



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Ailments, Cloud helps because he's a gentleman, F/M, POV Cloud Strife, POV Tifa Lockhart, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sensations, Smut, Status Effects, Tifa is in a state of berserk and/or poison and/or confusion and/or everything under the sun, Tifa rides Cloud when berserk need i say more?, and descriptions, and sensations, i dunno man, i mostly slammed the keyboard a lot, just a lot of nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:47:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28887846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaceOdementia/pseuds/spaceOdementia
Summary: Tifa is struck with a myriad of status ailments. Cloud helps her.
Relationships: Cloud Strife/Tifa Lockhart, Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife
Comments: 33
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This story is a lot of word vomiting. It's all smut. Really. That's all. Nothing especially explicit. 
> 
> Thank you, Somebodys_Nightmare, for always reading over my stuff and making me feel like a queen, even when I smash out something ridiculous on my keyboard without thinking very hard. You're the best, always. Also, _go read her stuff, what are you waiting for?_
> 
> Happy reading! I hope everyone is doing well, staying safe, and not going crazy.

A dreary, thick haziness.

That’s what surrounds her. It burns and prickles at the line of her eyes, making them fill with water and struggle to see. Her mind spins and spins, like a roulette wheel, landing on the first object in the spectrum of her vision—the enemy, they’re the enemy, and they must die, they must die because they’re trying to kill her. She hurts and aches and _burns,_ and it’s all their fault. It’s their weapons that cleave into her skin, and she’s hot all over, _hot all over,_ and she must be bleeding. She feels it drip across her skin. The sensation is the color of red and blue and violet—dark and swirling, overcoming her with the tangy, sharp undercurrent of sweat and fatigue. They’ve bashed her into the ground, but she doesn’t feel it. She only feels the _rage_ and the _burn,_ and _who is it that is holding her down?_

She roars at them. She has to win. She has to throw them off her, she must survive, she has to, because—because—

Important things. So many important things. Fighting. Winning. Surviving. Continuing on. Yes, she must continue on.

Her nails chip against something—a metal buffer. Armor? Leather? A face? Skin has never felt so taut or steely. It’s never felt so unforgiving underneath her fingers. Where are her gloves? Did she ever have any to begin with?

Something bashes into her stomach. It feels blunt and raw, and oh, _Shiva,_ she moans. It rips through her like snagged thread. She curls in on herself before she unravels, and she throws herself against the figure that rammed her stomach. They tumble and fall across the plains, and they hold her shoulders and her arms—as if they can contain her. She grins maliciously at their feeble attempts. They roll and rock, pulling and tugging and weaving, and it is not only a battle of strength, but also perseverance and that tangy sweat and fatigue. Who will tire sooner? Not she. No. She is endless. She _burns,_ burning like a bright, magnanimous star, forever and ever and ever—

Something smacks the back of her head, and it snaps to the side. Stars—she’s a star but she _sees_ stars, and she loses her balance, and the hands gripping her are so tight, so fierce like cold steel, and oh, she _loves_ this coldness, this chill against her _burning._ It is delicious and effervescent. It is lavender like the wildflowers in summertime. She feels a bubble of laughter burst through her chest, and she can’t help it. Suddenly, she is so taken with it. She tries to follow it—where’s the chill? Where are those hands? She finds them in the haze, gripping them tightly. She keeps them close to her. She laughs, her face splitting in a grin, and it is such a beautiful feeling against the burn and the sweat, the fatigue rippling through her but pushing her on and on. Her heart rockets beneath her sternum, hopping like a rabbit, and she might explode, she might rupture like a firework lit up from the inside. Oh, and she wants it—she wants it all. She wants that chill in her hair and in her eyes and against her teeth.

She needs it on her. She needs it _inside of her._

As she curls her entire being around that chill, sucking them into her soul, she hears the shudder and she feels the vibration of a name against the shell of her ear.

“ _Tifa,”_ it says. He says. The voice is deep and gruff, strangled like a bent, beat up lead pipe. It curves against her, and it is seductive and lovely. She chases it, groaning, growling. She sinks her teeth into the skin of the chill, and she is rewarded by the voice. _“Tifa.”_

Yes. Yes, this is it. She digs her fingers into feathery soft remnants of hair and leather. She gropes for the steel. She uncovers silky, smooth hardness, unrelenting skin, _oh._ Oh, it is pleasure and pain and _burning,_ a swirl of violet and magenta—a deep, agonizing sunset across the horizon. It bursts across her eyelids and through the haze, fervently and viciously attempting to wave away the fog. To see. To touch fully. To taste and feel.

She rubs, grinding and swirling. She feels nothing but the blunt edge of ecstasy, the chill, the decadent trail of _Tifa, Tifa._

She follows it. She craves it. She presses and pulls, weaving into the cloth and skin. More skin. Flesh and bones quake under her palms. She scratches at it, trying to meld herself against it. That rich tang of sweat collects on her skin, and she drinks it, letting it fill her up, letting it—

She gasps, the chill on her body, on her stomach, behind her knees. _Yes,_ this is what she wants—more than anything. She groans and relents, her muscles frustrated and twisting on each other. She grips the hands that caress her, pushing them into every single part, higher up her thighs, against her breasts and her neck. She weaves her fingers against the fine bones of the palm, cradling her face. A finger touches her lip, and she tastes it with her tongue, sucking it into her mouth, wanting, craving.

The skin is rich and sweet and cold—cold and delicious. It is so much better, so much better.

It drags out of her mouth, trailing down her burning body. It begins to caress on its own, without any more prodding, any more violent pushing and pulling. She finds a plane of smooth skin, now unimpeded by leather and metal. She finds it with her lips, tasting, eating, and _oh,_ this is better—much better.

There is a sound. It is a moan, low and deep, rattling the tunnel of her stomach. It feasts on her insides. She claws and receives another one, another and another. She sucks on cords of muscle, wreaks havoc on the bare, decadent body underneath her, and she is bombarded with the scent of rain and grass, of cutting winds and whipped cheeks. It is so much, she cries out against it, absorbing it, becoming it.

She feels the chill curl against her, and it reaches all of her skin—outside and inside, caressing and tugging like a question, and it is so hesitant and gentle that she claws harder, answering with a growl. There is harder pressure, and that’s—that’s it. She keens, rubbing and pushing, chasing that decadence like her life depends on it.

 _Tifa,_ she hears. It rushes along the tight beats of her heart. _Oh, Tifa._

The burn is becoming unbearable. The chill doesn’t do anything against it. It ravages her, the more and more the chill hits her, digs inside of her, the more desperate the heat becomes. Higher and higher, the burn climbs her. It pulverizes her abdomen, trails up her chest, breaches her neck and her throat, up and up and up.

It suffocates her with the black and purple haze, now a brilliant red and white. It flashes against her eyelids—and when did she close her eyes? She moans at the sensation, carried away by it. She is gone, burning up like a forest fire against the wind. She exists no longer, struggling to breathe. She is one with the skin underneath her, surrounding her, all around. She turns and twists, disintegrating into nothing, _nothing._

In a moment, she is free from all of it. The haze settles against the rims of her eyes, fading slowly and softly. The black becomes a muted cream, the purples and blues a gleaming yellow and a mild orange.

When she opens her eyes the next time—hours, perhaps, or minutes, seconds or days—she sees. She is boneless and content. She has been broken apart and put back together. She is free.

Glancing up to admire the face of the body, she doesn’t even register the full force of Cloud underneath her, eyes dazed and cheeks flushed down to his bare chest. She simply smiles, sighing, and nudges her face into the gentle heat of his chest.

“Mm,” she mumbles quietly. “Thank you.”

Then, she falls asleep.


	2. Molten Fog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloud has to make her snap out it. [Purple Haze in Cloud's POV]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I guess my brain needed to purge myself in between the different stories I'm writing, and this is what came out of me. This is Cloud's POV over what happened when Tifa was inflicted with so many status ailments. It's really just PWP. NO ONE ASKED FOR THIS. I tried to make it consistent with Tifa's POV but is it???? 
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy!!! 
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day (YET AGAIN)<3

Bad planning.

That’s all Cloud can chalk this fight up to. Bad planning, terrible foresight, and awful strategy.

Aerith has been casting Esuna left and right, healing the others as soon as they're inflicted with the Malboro’s Bad Breath. She has been wearing herself ragged, the magic a constant stream from her fingertips. Cid has been swearing up a storm beside Barret, attempting to corral the monster to the corner of one of the cliff faces while both Cloud and Tifa engage when it’s distracted by Barret and Vincent’s gunfire. Nanaki’s fire tail helps combust the noxious fumes, making the thing screech in agony and anger when blasted by flame. When it charges in rage, Yuffie jumps from tree to tree, pelting it with multiple strikes of her shruiken.

It all would have been fine, had there only been the one Malboro. Not two. And certainly not three.

Cloud isn’t sure where they came from—either the dank depths of a cave carved into the cliff, or from the dense, pine forests surrounding them at the bottom of Gaea’s Cliff. He doesn’t rightly care. All he knows is that he is dangerously annoyed and frustrated, and they are quickly running out of emergency Remedies and Ethers. Aerith won’t be able to keep up with her Esuna casts, and the clearing is not large enough to avoid three assaults of Bad Breath. Even with her Ribbon equipped, and everyone else’s bangles and wards, they can’t protect from every single ailment.

Not to mention, it is _fucking cold._

“This a load of shit,” Barret grumbles, pelting one of the Malboro’s with his gun arm. Cid spears the body of another with his javelin, but the skin is so thick, it only leaves a simple, shallow cut.

“These damn motherfuckers are some different breed,” Cid says.

They are able to take down one Malboro before, Cloud thinks, everything completely goes to hell.

Yuffie is able to avoid most of the onslaught of Bad Breath as she flips through the trees, continuously moving. They had thrown her the pack of Remedies earlier in the battle, but she had shouted they were desperately low a few minutes ago.

Soon, Vincent petrifies and turns to stone. Barret is confused and enraged with berserk—a lethal combination in any aspect, and certainly one his personality doesn’t need. Aerith has the wherewithal to heal him first, even as her face pales from the exertion. She’s running low on her magical ability, and Cloud curses. They are complete idiots, not having a backup Esuna materia or someone else to help heal. To be fair, they never needed one _before._

Cid is hit with confusion, but this somehow helps them out more than Cloud anticipated. He stabs and throws his javelin at the Malboros instead of the party, and it’s a mild blessing.

Cloud is able to avoid major side effects, only being poisoned most of the time. He utilizes Antidotes on himself to save anyone else the precious time to administer it when they should be dodging and attacking. Him and Tifa wear down one of the Malboros together, slicing and punching, Tifa inundated with silence and occasionally sleep. Cloud is there to wake her, but the silence does not seem to affect their fighting strategy. They’ve always been good without talking.

Nanaki is able to avoid most of the Bad Breath, and perhaps it is from his mutations. He slices off tentacles one by one, and between him and Barret, they are able to destroy another Malboro. That leaves them with only one.

Aerith is able to bring Vincent back to the fight when Tifa rams into Cloud. He goes sprawling, dazed at her hit, when he realizes she pushed him out of the way from a directed attack of the monster’s breath. Her silence had kept her from shouting, and Cloud watches with horror as the breath surrounds her in a murky black, nearly viscous fog. She pales when it subsides, then her skin begins to burn the molten orange of berserk, twisting around in a heavy blast of confusion. She bares her teeth, her silence still in place, but the pallor of her skin is tinged with green. Poison, too, Cloud realizes. He snarls at the Malboro, but he turns his attention toward Tifa again. She’s glaring right at him before she pounces, her punches lightning fast and sizzling with balls of flame. Barret curses up a storm somewhere behind them, and Yuffie shouts a prayer up to her favorite god.

“Oh sweet Leviathan, she’ll kill us all. We’re completely out of Remedy!”

“Tifa—“ Cloud breathes, dodging and blocking, stepping back and back toward one of the cliff faces. There isn’t a way to heal her completely without Esuna. Remedies heal berserk. If he can edge a hit in, he might be able to get rid of her confusion, but—

Swing, punch, dodge. Kick, punch, dodge, block. Cloud huffs a breath. He can almost taste the energy rippling off her fists. She had been strong before, but with berserk, if she hits her limit break…Yuffie’s right. She might kill them all if Aerith doesn’t cast Esuna.

Vincent calls out. “We’ll take care of the last one. Keep her distracted while Aerith regains her magic abilities.”

“Easy for—you to say,” Cloud grunts, trying to maintain full concentration on Tifa’s attacks. The good thing is that the confusion and the slow drain of poison makes her sloppy and less graceful than usual. Cloud can time them easier while she’s in this state.

“Keep her grounded, Spiky,” Barret yells over his firing bullets. “We’re almost finished with this bastard.”

“I’m sorry, Cloud. I’ll be ready as soon as I can,” Aerith says, her breath wispy and clenching her hands together. Green and white light swirls around her as she recharges her power.

“Take—your—time,” Cloud grits out, acidic and sarcastic. “Tifa, c’mon, snap out of it.”

Her eyes burn with internal flame. The color around her pupils looks alive, like it’s fluid. It looks like a watery sunset, and her chilled cheeks are sharp points on her face. She is beautiful. She has always been beautiful, but in this wicked, wrathful, bloodthirsty state…she is menacing and devastating.

She bares her teeth, but the silence barricades any of her growls or words. She is unrelenting, continuing to advance on him. When he steps back to avoid a punch, his left heel his ice and then air. Nothing. He dares a glance back and sees a drop-off just an inch behind him.

“Shit,” he mutters, his sword clanging against a block from her fist. He blocks again and again, pressing his boots into the compacted snow and trying to buy some time to think. It’s impossible to tell where the drop-off ends. The ground below is littered with white snow, the shadows subtle and hardly existent.

A heavy hit makes his feet slip back another inch. He clenches his jaw. When she comes forward again, he aims the blunt edge of his sword into her stomach. He immediately regrets it, seeing the pain pass over her face. It is gone in an instant, her glare that much more potent and severe. He breathes out. She's still confused. And he can't...he _won't_ use his sword again. It’s too dangerous. He might cause more damage than he means, and he'd never forgive himself for hurting her.

He can dodge forward, but she might topple over the side of the cliff. He can’t chance that. If he is able to tackle her, they can roll away from the edge, but…that would mean he would actually take her down. She flits over the snow like a hummingbird, and if he misses her… He internally groans. They’re just too close to the edge. He glances over at Aerith, her green and white still swirling.

“C’mon, Aerith,” he mutters under his breath in a hopeless plea.

Tifa must sense his desperation, because instead of her sloppy kicks or punches, she lunges at him. It’s an awkward maneuver, and he makes an impulsive decision to toss his sword to the side, her shoulders jamming into his chest. He wraps his arms around her and attempts to twist them away from the ledge.

They spin and spin, and Cloud’s boots slip on an icy patch of snow. He can nearly feel Tifa’s silent growl tumble through her chest, and she jerks them with a tremendous tug.

“Goddamn it,” he curses, tucking her into his body as they fall over the edge together. Cloud’s back hits tufts of snow, and they bounce and roll in a frenzy. Tifa doesn’t seem to care that they are half suspended in air and ramming into blocks of snow. She continues to writhe against his arms, trying to knee and twist. She goes so far as to bite his bicep, and Cloud thinks her teeth might be more painful than the fall.

When they land at the bottom, the fight continues. Tifa jerks around and tries to throw an elbow. It’s too close to do too much damage, and Cloud hooks his arm against hers. She thrashes, throwing a punch with her other fist, and he blocks it with his forearm. He tangles their legs together so she can’t debilitate him with a knee to the groin, and her teeth clench together so hard, he thinks he can hear them scrape in her mouth. She forces them to roll over the snow back and forth, creating a trail with their bodies.

“Tifa, it’s me. It’s Cloud. Snap out of it,” he pants.

Her silence might be wearing away, or she perseveres enough against the magic, because he can hear a soft, animalistic growl. He presses his hands into her ribs and her back, and they continue rolling with each other.

“It’s me.”

She shudders and writhes underneath the placement of his hands, and it’s not like the wrathful trembling she had been demonstrating before. Cloud tries not to allow his guard to drop, suspicious at the minimal shift in her energy. One of her arms is still locked with his elbow, but her hand comes up to graze his skin. Her teeth continue to clench, but her mouth spreads wider, and he rolls them enough to press her down beneath him. He eyes her mouth and thinks it might be a grimace, a scowl. It’s dangerous, cold and brutal. Her hand grips his forearm, her fingers digging deeply, and she pushes up against him and into his weight. Her other hand snakes around to find his other arm, clawing until it grips his own hand. It shocks him as she squeezes it, her eyes still terrifyingly deadly, glazed with bloodlust and…and something else. She squirms, but she isn’t trying to push him off. She slides against him, her breaths coming out in heavy puffs of condensed air. The poison seems to ebb and pulse in her eyes, but it is beginning to dim, too. 

“Tifa, break out of it,” he says, allowing his weight to settle completely on her, trapping her between him and the snow. He interlocks their fingers together. “Break it.”

She huffs another breath, wriggling and squirming underneath him. They are desperate motions, but they are spurred on without the intent to kill. She just moves and moves and keeps moving. Cloud furrows his brows down at her, watching, trying to anticipate if she will throw him off her or headbutt him and break his nose. She doesn’t, her eyes simply fluttering and foggy, and her widely split mouth curves into a smile. A small, tiny puff of noise escapes her, and her hips press into his own. Cloud blinks, and it takes him too long to realize his thigh is situated between her legs, still entangled from their tussle mere seconds ago. She grinds down against his leg, and Cloud’s eyes widen. He can feel her heat on his leg, and her face is still in that tempered, tiny smile. Her eyes continue to swirl with fire, but her hands grip his own and bring them close to her lips. She opens her mouth and bites a gloved knuckle between her teeth.

Speechlessness hits Cloud before the panic, bringing his voice out of his throat. “ _Tifa,_ ” he breathes. “C’mon. Break out of this. I can’t… _Tifa.”_

Another noise escapes her. She raises her head and her teeth and tongue find his neck. She laves against the muscle of his throat. Cloud stills, afraid to jerk away. If he attempts to stop her, will it provoke her wrath again?

She sucks and bites, the edge of her teeth scraping until she reaches the collar of his vest. She grinds down against his thigh. Her fingers barricade his own.

Swallowing, Cloud states gruffly, “Tifa.”

Him saying her name _does_ something. Her hands leave his to curl around the back of his head. They flutter into his hair, and her mouth continues to ravage his neck. Her body continues to twist and swirl underneath him, and they’re disappearing into a pocket of snow. Cloud realizes at least an inch has melted away around them.

She tugs roughly at his sweater vest. At his shoulder pauldron. She arches her hips up into his and she continues to press and linger against his thigh.

He’s afraid to do…anything. He simply lies atop her, uncertain if he should allow her any room or freedom. He probably shouldn’t, but…but what she’s doing… She’s not in her right mind. She’s going to regret doing this when she comes to, and she’ll be so embarrassed, he knows she will be, and she might stop talking to him, and the prospect of losing that—of violating the friendship they’ve built between them…

When her hands slip underneath his sweater, Cloud hisses. “Tifa, don’t.”

She doesn’t listen to him. He doesn’t think she can even hear him. Her eyes are foggy, and her lips are swollen from sucking on his skin. The sight of her like this—he tries to suppress the way his blood sings in his ears.

Her hands press and massage against his torso. He shudders against her hot fingers, still bordered with berserk. He simply hovers on his elbows, and he decides to take it. Maybe she’ll wade out of it on her own, and she just needs…whatever it is she’s doing right now. Maybe she just needs the touch, to redirect her bloodlust and transform it into _lust._

He attempts to slacken himself, but when she pushes up into his undeniable arousal, Cloud hisses again. “ _Tifa.”_

He’s suddenly on his back, Tifa taking his place. He blinks up at her, swallowing at the malicious grin on her face. Her fingers claw deeper underneath his sweater, pushing it up enough to bare his entire torso. She lowers her mouth on him, her teeth scraping against his chest, clipping his nipple, and trailing down and down, so leisurely. So slow. She sucks each rib, tongues every single line. He involuntarily lurches, her lips finding areas that are so sensitive—areas he didn’t even know elicited any type of sensation at all.

“ _Tifa,”_ he tries, not sure if he will survive any of this. He’s steel against his pants. It’s so painful and—and if Tifa goes any lower…he’s done.

She spends a significant amount of time on the skin below his navel. It’s the worst kind of torture. He stares up at the gray, icy sky overhead and waits for it to end.

It doesn’t end. It continues on and on and on. Cloud’s gloved hands fist in the snow.

“Tifa…I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know…you’re going to regret this. I’m sorry.”

He reaches up to touch her shoulder, trying to give her some gesture of apology. At his touch, she stills, and another noise puffs out of her. She glances up at him, hovering above him. She grips his hand and divests the glove, throwing it off to the side. Cloud tenses.

“Tifa—“

She brings his hand to her mouth, kissing the middle of his palm. She licks up his fingers. She places one, two, then three of his fingers into her mouth and sucks on them, dragging them across her chin to her neck, then her hip and thigh.

Cloud watches every single movement.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes. She leaves his hand on the back of her thigh, and she finds his other hand before doing the same thing to it. Sucking his fingers, dragging them, wet and chilled, across her skin.

Cloud tentatively starts to move his hand on his own. He grazes against her hot, heated skin. She hums against it, the areas he touches curling up to meet the pads of his fingers. He watches in wonderment at the completely seductive way her body twists. A low groan escapes him, and Tifa’s eyes alight with ice and redness. She leans over and begins to feast on his torso again, her nails cutting into his skin. It becomes hard for him to swallow, his throat clogged with his desire for her.

He’s always wanted her. It’s been difficult to ignore, their journey always at the forefront of his mind but her silhouette lingering in his periphery every day. He’d sneak in a touch here and there, against the small of her back, her arm, her shoulder. He’d be rewarded with a smile or a tease, the warmth of her kindness like a caress against his mind.

His hand wraps around the bend of her knee, and her breath flutters along his stomach. She drags her hands to the buckle of his pants, and everything in him tightens—both in desperate want and horror.

“T-Tifa, don’t,” he tries, but she doesn’t hear him as she drags his pants down. He sits up and tries to push her away, but she nails him with her stare, her lips curling at his protests. She pushes him back down into the snow as she finishes pulling his pants down to where she wants them. He springs free into the chill of the air, and Cloud’s mind swarms with dizziness.

She grabs one of his hands and drags it to her skirt. Without any preamble, she slips his fingers underneath the band, past her shorts and underwear, and she softly keens into the air.

“Tifa,” he says, nearly snarling. He doesn’t move his hand, but she moves on him, encouraging him with a silent command. Hesitantly, he glides his fingers with a slow cadence, and her breath deepens.

Her texture is astounding. He tries to memorize it as he experiments, finding the areas she likes the most. She slips further onto his fingers, and he slides right in. He doesn’t mean for it to happen so quickly, but she mewls, gripping his length in her hand as she rides his finger. Cloud’s vision ceases, blending in with the white surrounding him.

“Tifa,” he pleads. “Oh, _Tifa.”_

His finger slips out and moves higher, and she purrs. She moves him toward her entrance, where his finger had left and deftly moving her skirt out of the way—ripping it away—and he’s suddenly _inside of her,_ and he can’t even take a breath to prepare before she overcomes him. She easily moves on him just like she had moved on his finger, writhing, grinding, a messy, frantic, frenzied rhythm. His hands land on her thighs then move up to her hips, and all he can do is watch her on top of him, follow her lead because she’s so _warm_ and _rich_ and the fire in her eyes burns straight into his throat. Her hair whips around them with the flurries of snow, and Cloud wonders when he’ll truly feel the icy punch of snow in his skin. With Tifa on such fire above him, he doesn’t think he will. He doesn’t think he _can._

He curses and groans. “Tifa. Shit. Oh, Tifa.”

She leans forward, fists digging into the snow. She twists and jerks on him, pushing savagely and roughly, and it tugs at the solid line deep inside of him. It pulls at the undeniable thread of pleasure, and Tifa clenches around him so hard, his release rattles through him like an earthquake. He feels it from his skull to the marrow in his bones, and he gasps for air as he crumbles.

Tifa must feel it viciously, too. She clenches for a lengthy, drawn out moment, a shrill cry finally breaking through her lips as she topples on top of him, boneless and spent.

He pants and tries to catch his breath. Tifa’s warmth trickles through him, her hair swathing around them like a blanket. Her muscles loosen, the feverish, confused heat begins to subside. The tautness of her skin unravels, and he knows as soon as she becomes lucid again because she leans up to look at him. Her eyes are content, her smile liquid and gleaming against the cavern of snow around them.

“Mm,” she mumbles, her voice husky and deep. “Thank you.”

She falls asleep in an instant. Cloud stares at her in relief and awe before he begins to smile. He starts to grin, and then he expels a delirious laugh, running a hand over his face and waiting to wake up from the dream.

He’ll have a lot of explaining to do later.

…a lot.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by this song: [Purple Haze](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rEzWKjdqRBA) by Zella Day
> 
> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/spaceOdementia) <3 come join me!~


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